


Line in the Sand

by Columba_Livia



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, M/M, theres a shit ton of cursing, this is rough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 17:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14676450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Columba_Livia/pseuds/Columba_Livia
Summary: The order not to kill the one man army that had been tearing up the county had come directly from Joseph himself.But now, watching them approach Jacob, his ‘herald’, his commander, his brother-in-arms,  his partner-Fuck that.





	1. Chapter 1

Clayton fucking _snarls_ when he sees Jacob’s knees go out, watching through his scope, because no. 

 

No.

 

This isn’t how things are supposed to go.

A god damned pipe bomb, lobbed from behind a tree. Thrown by that fucking son of a bitch Deputy, caught Jacob off guard. And now through his scope, Clayton can see the blood spreading on the side of Jacob’s coat, from the splatter of shrapnel that caught him.

As Jacob goes down, a head pokes out of the bush the explosive originated from rotating wildly, in search of more danger. But all the chosen that had been with Jacob are dead, the judges as well.

They all had their orders. Don't kill the deputy. Shoot to cripple, but not kill. See how well that had worked for them.

Jacob had posted Clayton to drive the man back if he tried to run, trusting him to make the shots and watch his back. But Clayton hadn't needed to fire a single bullet, the deputy making a beeline for Jacob once he picked out his perch on the ridge.

But now, as Clayton followed the deputy in his scope, watching them pick their way carefully up the rest of the rise towards where Jacob had collapsed against a boulder, he fought the twitch of his trigger finger. The order not to kill the one man army that had been tearing up the county had come directly from Joseph himself. 

But now, watching them approach Jacob, his ‘herald’, his commander, his brother-in-arms,  his _partner_ -

 

Fuck _that_.

 

With deliberate motions, Clayton tracks the deputy, ~~death on his pale horse~~ , in his crosshairs, rapidly calculating for the soft breeze twitching the treetops down range and settling himself more firmly in place. 

Center of mass. He refuses to miss his one shot for the stupid satisfaction of seeing the deputy’s head burst like a melon.

He can see Jacob’s lips moving in the edge of his scope, talking, saying something to the deputy. Still alive, the tough s.o.b., thank god.

Just as Clayton slips his finger past the trigger guard, the deputy moves, one step forward, reaching out to grab at the key hung around Jacob's neck. He lets them take it. 

A step back and they turn, facing directly away from Clayton.  

 

Breathe in, and out.

 

In and out.

 

In-

 

Clayton’s body jolted with the recoil, and a half second later, a .338 Lapua round shattered the deputy’s spine and scrambled their organs with a cloud of blood.

They were dead before they hit the ground. 

He's made hundreds of kill shots, but now Clayton’s hands are shaking as he scrambles up, swinging his rifle over his shoulder and darting down from his perch.

He sprints through the trees, drawing his side arm as he runs. 

It's over half a mile from his ridge to Jacob's.  

Clayton doesn't remember anything about his mad dash later, crashing through the woods, practically daring any of the deputy’s allies to take a shot at him.

Slipping and scrambling over the shale, up a rock slide he hauls himself up the cliff side, to be greeted by the deputy’s corpse in a still spreading pool of blood, Jacob slumped on his boulder, eyes shut and chest moving almost imperceptibly. 

“Jacob-”

His eyes crack open, chest rattling as he tries to take a deeper breath.

“Oh thank fuck-” Clayton doesn't pay the body any mind, not even to kick it on his way to Jacob’s side, “You don't get to die on me now you son of a bitch”  

With shaking hands, he pulls the other man's jacket and shirt off, before balling up the shirt and pressing it to the largest wound on his side. “What’re you do’in-”

Jacob’s words are slurred, one hand reaching out to paw at Clayton’s shoulder with a groan.

“Trying to save your dumb ass, that's what.”

“Lemme go Clay…” Another deep rattling breath. “I'm done.”

“Fuck that Jake. I hauled your ass out of the fire once before, I'll do it again, and again, however many times it takes you idiot”

They've got to go. Resistance are bound to show up soon and they're both sitting ducks. The blood seeping from Jacob's side has turned his shirt into a sopping mess, so Clayton tosses it away. He yanks his own over his head and undo’s his belt, using it to strap the makeshift bandage to Jacob's side. There's several pepper bunkers in the vicinity. Any one of them are bound to have medical supplies, something, anything to hold Jacob together long enough to get him to real help. Although who knows who or where that'll be. Clayton has defied Joseph,  defied The Father, and regardless of his beliefs or why he's here, he knows that's not something that they'll let him walk away from. That doesn't matter though. Not here. Not now.

 “Come’on Jake, I didn't defy your brother and ruin my best shirt for you to give up here.”

With that, he leans his shoulder into Jacob, dragging him up into a fireman's carry. As he stumbles down the mountain,  he alternates between cursing and praying to any god that might be listening. This isn't the end. He won't let it be.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton lies like a goddamn rug. Help from less likely sources.

The bunker Clayton finds has shit to work with. He should have known better, being this close to the Wolf’s Den- _it was there, so goddamn close the whole time-_ that the militia would have already picked it clean, if it wasn’t their stash to begin with.

He’d set Jacob down just inside the door set in the rock face, rummaging around desperately. Jake had passed out at some point on the trip over, despite Clayton’s efforts to keep him awake, and now the only sign of life was the slow, hitching, rise and fall of his chest, and the occasional groan.

Finally just as he was beginning to lose hope, Clayton catches a glimpse of an old first aid box in the beam of his flashlight.

 

It’s enough for now.

 

With careful  hands, Clayton does everything he can to clean and wrap Jacob’s injuries, using some of the bottled water he’d found to wash away the blood as he goes. Hands that shook earlier with stress, adrenaline, ~~anxiety~~ , are rock steady stitching and packing wounds. The smell of blood, iron, and gunpowder clogging his nose.

 

It’s not nearly enough.

 

Clayton has done this too many times. For other brothers and sisters that never made it home, for himself, and for Jacob. A pipe bomb in the woods or an IED in the desert, doesn’t matter now. Splinters blown out of a pine tree, rocks and glass and nails and whatever else that son of a bitch saw fit to pack it with. Scrapes and gunpowder flash burns.

Jacob doesn’t wake, and as much as Clayton would love some reassurance, he knows that's for the best right now.

Hours later, pushing on sunset, Clayton ventures back out into the trees. He’d managed to stem the bleeding and dig out most of the shrapnel  from Jacob’s busted ribs, but there were no painkillers and not nearly enough gauze in the box. Fishing line for sutures and a bottle of vodka. Options, options, and none of them good.

So he’d left Jake laid on the cot in the bunker, wrapped in an emergency blanket, and headed out in search of anything better. There had been a radio, with working batteries even, among the clutter, but Clayton wasn’t willing to take chances on that now. He doesn’t know what’s going on, is anyone looking for them- ~~thats a dumb question~~ \- what does the resistance know, fuck, the other Heralds, _Joseph_.

His rifle left laid alongside Jacob.

He’s maybe a quarter mile from their hiding hole, when a figure with a shotgun swings around a tree, onto the deer trail he’d been following. Adrenalin shoots down his spine, rattling the haze that had settled over his mind. Full camo, not a single cross in sight, so he makes a snap decision.

“Woah, woah, woah, don’t shoot! I’m not one’ah those peggie fucks!” Clayton throws his hands up, fully aware of how vulnerable he is. No ballistic vest today, and hell, now he didn’t even have a shirt on, just the knife in his thigh holster and the pistol in his hand for weapons.

Two more of the resistance emerge from the trees, one with a bow and the other a shotgun, like the first. Just play nice, God he doesn’t _have time for this-_

Clayton knows how he looks. It’s a miracle they didn’t open fire on sight. His hair done up in a braid looks nearly identical to Jacob’s cut from the front, dog tags dangling against his chest, ginger beard, and scars all over. Soaked in blood, _Jacob’s blood_ , all over his pants and smeared across his chest and back, coating his hands and up his forearms. Fuck, it’s a miracle they don’t just shoot him just on principal.

“The fuck-”

“I’m _not_ Jacob Seed. Swear on my momma’s grave. I’m just try’n ta get help- There was a fucking shootout or somethin’ earlier, peggies were tossin’ goddamn grenades around an me’n my buddy were hunting, an got caught in the crossfire. Shrappnel blew right up in his back,” he lays his accent on thick, nothing like Jacob’s muffled drawl.

The man in front lets out a low whistle, lowering his gun a bit, “Goddamn you are one unlucky son of a bitch, you know that? Stand you next to Jacob and I bet you’d pass as twins if those posters are anything to go by”

The lady with the bow is squinting, brows furrowing, and a frown crawling across her face. The ‘Wrath’ carved into Clayton’s thigh burns under his pants and he thanks god that it hadn’t been placed somewhere more visible. That his tattoos are normally covered and nothing 'incriminating'. He knows some of the militia and resistance have seen him and lived to tell the tale recently, no thanks to their now dead hero, and fuck if it wouldn’t just be his luck if this is one of them. 

He needs to cut this off at the pass, get out of here, get gone and back to Jake. At this point, Clayton slowly lowers his arms to his sides, pistol hanging loosely in one hand. Thankfully, none of them startle.

“Look, our first aid kit was basically empty, I just need some supplies if you’ve got any and I’ll get out of your hair, promise”

The woman speaks up for the first time, “If your buddy’s hurt that bad, we’ll come with you and lend a hand”

Clayton barks out a hard laugh, “Lady, with all due respect, Fuck’naw. If I brought any of ya’ll back to our place Brent would have my hide soon as he’s better. We’ve managed this long without anybody finding us an I ain’t gonna jeopardize that.  ‘Sides, I was a first responder, I know my shit when it comes to injuries.”

“Fine.” Her eyes flicker down to his dog tags before softening slightly, “Carson, you run on back and grab one of the field bags. We’ll wait here.” The kid with the other shotgun perks up before jogging back into the brush. “Should only be a few minutes and we’ll have you on your way- What’s your name, I didn’t catch it earlier”

Clayton doesn’t even trip over it when he says, “Garrett, and my friend Brent’ll be mighty happy when I come back with some bandages that aren’t one of my stinky shirts”

The man laughs, “I’m Weston and that’s Gloria”

They trail off into awkward silence, that becomes more uncomfortable as time passes. Clayton is getting twitchy after a few minutes, what if this is a trap, what if the kid went back for more reinforcements, what if they know the deputy’s dead, what if, what if , what if-

A spiraling panic that has Clayton struggling to keep his breathing calm and even the longer he waits, fists clenching reflexively and twitching at every sound in the woods around them. The adrenalin that was just starting to die down leaves him shakey on top of it all. No feeling in his legs and feet, numb fingers on the grip of his gun.

But eventually, the kid trotts back into view, alone, gun carried loosely in one hand, and a small duffle slung over his shoulder. Clayton breathes just a little easier.

“Just toss it on the trail an’ I’ll get it” He calls out, finally holstering his pistol.

The boy hands it to Weston with a glance, who proceeds to gently lob the bag down the path towards Clayton. As soon as it lands, he hurries forward, not taking his eyes off the trio, even as he snags the strap and backs up the way he came, putting some distance between them again.

“M’sorry I don’t have any way to pay ya back right now, but I gotta be gettin’ back now”

“Just keep fighting the good fight man, hope your friend gets better.”

Clayton nods, backing down the trail till he’s out of sight, before turning into the underbrush and heading back towards the bunker as fast as his feet will carry him.

He’s not going to take a chance with this and risk Jacob’s life, so his path rapidly becomes meandering, twisting, turning, and backtracking. He’s not going to lead those idiots right to their door if he can help it. Several times Clayton thinks he sees something out of place, or movement in the corner of his eye, but checking finds him nothing so he continues on his way.

He watches the the bunker door for ten minutes under the moonlight, hidden in the brush, before he approaches, gun drawn. Nothing seems out of place, but he can’t be too careful.

Clayton yanks the chain loosely wrapped around the door handle free, and tugs it free of the rock. “Jake-”

And that’s all he gets out as the door swings back, revealing a blur in the darkness clocking him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, Woah 
> 
> I wasn't expecting nearly the response I got on the first chapter
> 
> I'm super glad ya'll liked it and I hope this continues to hold up to your expectations!

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a mostly spur of the moment thing, but I may write more of this later.
> 
> I'm not sure, but it was very fun.
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed!


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